Fault // Line

Rise Up! 

The season to weep bears no fruit. 

Boxcars blast by selecting the 

frame-by-frame of a dreary horizon. 

Fallow Fertility- what was bred is bad. 

Better believe you hold your hands 

too close to the Fire.

Barriers, fences, all to 

alleviate your eyes of recognition of 

Fault and Fear of Forever. 

Release the wrong which lives a life of luxury-

Lingering in lies, lost in an intricately interlaced

architecture of your own construction.

Breaking // News

Seatbelt-Settle-Down
Collect Belongings. Exit.
Sit. Wait. Swallow Whole Bites
(while you exercise the right for them to relinquish your own.)

Check In. Check Out. 185 Miles to your next
(temporary) Destination.

Home is where the heart is, if you can remember where you left it. They had high hopes, you know.

Power On. Log In. 
Fein intimacy (as though it still exists) until loneliness reminds you that
It never did.
Chime in as though you care, but already can't remember what you said. 

Descend. Light Rain. 61 Degrees. 

The buzz from the tele: 
the magical glass house (with bouffant and boobs)
mouthing muted mutiny. 
They Did It Again. 
Breaking News.

original pen date: Sept. 2011.

Forests // Farmland

deepfreeze freefall

snow climb magnified in globular caskets

                                               while order prevails amid the 

                                                          swirling

                                         shifting                       lost                  little chaos.

an hour into the divided 

forests             and          farmland, stealing frozen frivolities and 

anxiously awaiting the thaw. 

a paralyzed panic is pressing against the breaks

slowing what was constant contact into a 

slovenly stall.

(Feathers and Cotton)

you asked a question, with

                           finger-tipped tendrils 

                                     tracing the life-lines of an 

open palm. 

The flashcards rapid-fire, 

projecting behind flickering orbs of adoration;

streaming the tales of a 

thousand possibilities-- 

           floating in seas of flora, 

                   laying buried beneath millions of their 

                   solar-rayed satin tongues, shrouded in the bee's busy work; 

           hand-held happiness; 

           memorization of moment each time 

                       eyes entangle                across               piles    of       feathers and cotton. 

So yes- 

sweet stellar existence, 

                an answer is deserved-so, 

but when I entreat my mind to 

speak 

      soft vocations of your affect on me, 

pretty meets happy and 

hallowed ground as such desires a quiet, 

                                                        contemplative 

                                                                        consciousness before I 

clatter in the clamor to 

find speech in perfect-present-tense 

to say...


       ...that silence seems golden until songbird soars.


Grasping,
Fingers
      follow            and     swell, 
               hollow


Hope hides in heaving breaths,
                budding between the fences,
                                                      coaxing
                                                          each
                                                            out
                                                       of gate.


Dance in sandstorms,
                            heat-lightning lengthens
                                                     shadows splashed from
hot-lamp-street-light.


Serpentine rhythms
          heat exchange
crying out for a
             kiss from the cross breeze to
chill the spine, supine sparks fly

(In it)

Inadequate atonement
      agile anonymous,
         aloof.
In awe of astronomy
Star bright, so right--what's left?
Lofty ideas,
      inarticulate intelligence intercepted by insulative insolence.
Interrogative heart seems inappropriate
(even though open book policy propriates the propensity to wonder).

Face // Off

Spit it out get it strait
stop dancing till dawn on the
backs of your hands
orbiting closer to
follow the ring to outer limits
everything
       in limbo
everything
       on hold
muted
   pause
     wait
       (suck it up)
          sacrifice
"bleed for me"
"think of me"
"don't let me go"
trapped behind the windows
surrounded by
resonating rations of
thought-
morsel
        here,
crumb
             there--
and the rats want to eat my face off.

photo: Carr Kizzier, on set.

Square Peg // Round Hole

So many Big Ideas-

How do I fit them all in between the skyscrapers?

Stand Tall Stand Proud

Scrape the sorrow and slop it all around.

Check // Mate

Outskirts
Outlaw in an up-skirt land
Hands-free heavy heart in
Fallow field beseeching the
Soulshine to
take root and heal.
Sealed into self-abnegating cells
foresight is fearful.


A thousand black crow's feathers beat incessantly
throwing dust into lacerated lucidity.
Masochistic mutilation of potential.
Indulgence in conceptual commodity
Holds me
      in check-mate,
Choking on instinct.


Cross-breeze etiquette:
Linger, but not last
Check-out in the gaze
out the window-
Looking out to look in.

(Transit/ion)

Hop-skip-
         a train-
           and a bus
I'm in the gathered shape
              (now absent of a
                  once-anchored Virgin.)


Mount my high-horse, and
disappear into the Rabbithole
        Jolted back into the lockbox where
lights sneak in through cracks to
alert to an overall general awareness.


At length, most of what most-often occurs 
          feels as though most
             anything that happens is
             something that just
snaps and cracks,
always on the sneak attack
banishing confidence, who
always arrives much belated.


By then it is all a dirty dream I've forgotten to photograph...


I've a wicked lil' mood
writhing just beneath the surface
waiting
   to bate your breath in
   momentary notes of mischief
found outside the melancholy.


Race like rising strings to the streets,
slap ass streak, rushing in and out
eyeing sliding doors as a safehaven from
anything outside elevation.


Sighs and sunken fingertip to flesh,
fossilize second and day.


Seated
    slipping backward feel like
Ridiculous rewind-
   an end scene in a mechanized set
on-set soliloquy to shout of
(or taste) the moonlight.


Silence has lost its
last innocence in
prolonged incubation.
supposed purposes throw
smoke-screen escapes,
reinventing reality
one pre-fab at a time.

(Trilogy)

I.

eyes that can hear and

hands that could see-

float you out to the

incessant sea.

shuttered windows and

hollow lies hide Holistic

within Heathen.

mis-read, mislead and

hunting the heretical hero

wishing you the best

pat you on the back and

trip you on your way

out into existence.

face falls too fast to forge forgiveness.

II.

waiting

working it out

somewhere in my sleep.

solemnly singing as the

bird caged by her own brain.

factory-made puppet purrs

in company of 8mm of

perfected

poise.

you exist

and yet--don't.

dear distractions that dance

amongst my flame-

first to the fire finds fellowship

in the wake of the early morn.

fire-escape rendezvous watching sun set behind

mechanical caterpillars.

cover the broad way with traveled miles

to see a familiar-face-not-forgotten.

shooting star surfaces to grant me

one last wish, only

I never could decide-

daren't inquire.

runaway holidays hold

hopes and hesitations...

30,000ft. is a long way to fall.

III.

silver sunburn

drink me in with thine eyes

hypnotize me in the memorization of

sleepy solace.

threads of intimate information

sent sailing along-

the sentiments speak softly and

carry big sticks.

bated banter bears down and

elicits ignition of

lost-but-not-forgotten flame that

feasts on my imbecilic imagination.

(imbecilic in its inspired improbabilities.)

(Love to Kill)

Linked to you all by
love and light,
spread thin,
       (while most anticipate spread leg), but
MaBelle is only a voice.
Ten fingers,
(one for each ring-)
each promise to breathe and to sing,
                   to laugh and to lose,
holding out for my humble pie,
watchful eye,
        melodic muse,
           mis-interpreted mother.
(Expectant only in
eagerness to engorge the erudite apostle's
explanation of self.)
Heart song zings- strings
anchor ankle to ankle
the convert and the coveted.
Influence is enough of a (gift) for our
malevolent Moll, to
send the sands surging into the wind,
                to scatter, and
all the while
shading from the sacrificial sun.
Got love to kill.
(Thru-traffic keeps me still.)
Sing me to sleep, it's a
beautiful lie on a tragically vibrant day.
Apple slices sweeten the tongue that
whispers whistles in a dark alley.

(Cave Dweller)

Digging into a stack of
memories waist-high,
drug by an under current of
tall tales and legends.
A starry sky three floors up,
doors locked, patience is wrought with
wicked-mimicing mysteries.
Ministries seem misplaced as we
hang the sheets in the wind.
Swing,
Low,
Sweet chariot race into the plains to
avoid bump and burise.
run from born and
fear the fall onto the
face-forward functions of
an anonymous algorithm of rhetoric.
practice what you preach,
perfecting speech,
pronounced predictions sighing it
a loud, self-fulfilling breath
leading into a
vacant prophecy.

(Irony)

Raw and resistant
Relics race unrestrained,
ravishing rock's moss rolled into the
Rays of Redemption.
Righteous wreaks of residual
when, really,
righteous relinquishes resonance to
rapture.

(Babble)

red bag snap-to

buckled shoes

seatbelt

simple sneak attack 

                      cold snap

outer limit 

            orange line

parkas and slickers

                 sneaks and stickers

hand-hold halos

death trap stare

                   so

                      see-through

furtive fertility

find futility for feasting of foes

buffalo plaid

stark raving sad              

          dots and dial

crocodile tail

sno-cone suffrage 

               blossom blows

jumping jack 

            slack snack

abstract stadium palladium

pushing triangle truffles to 

tantalize the triumphant

(Nuclear)

Songs of solitary
confinement
create a harmony in
suffocation of sense to
distract with or from the physical.


Heart says "Go!" but
head hesitates and a
dirty dance of delusive balance begins.


"This never ends well,"
the body chimes in with
muscle memory of the
meaning of life.


A corpus-chorus-line.
Feeling a bit like a puppet and
never the master,
asphyxiate with strings to
escape the proliferated penitiential practice.


Prolific writer, setting bombs, talks of body, never of arms.

(All the Wild Things)

Timelines trip the toes
of the Fortuitous, and eventually,
a trickle that treaded softly amongst the
soft-spoken become
torrents that flood all
connective-tissue, exacerbating the
gash of a cruel-chain-of-events.


Where
do all
the
lost people
(things)
go?


Never-Never Land, hand in hand with God-
waiting for a fold in time to
reconnect the disjointed     delinquents.


Eyelashes sticktogether
bonded by the salt and sweat, and
Sweet Dreams.
Eyes impregnated with
flash forwards of what
can be
should a stream of consciousness
prevail over preliminary percussive poisons.


A veiled stillness imitates
withdrawl
when, behind the curtain the
effervescent shit-show of
renegade relics of personailty
sing songs.

Inventory // .............

Under-educated
Overstimulated
Combustible
Inconsolable

Destructible

Impassable

Undesirable

Overburdened

Unseen

Go // Flurry

Organized flurry of alphabet gathers
in a fog and I cannot seem to
order them into snowflakes and
have them dance, following the
flicker from a candle, and land lost and
frostbitten to melt into puddles
collecting consciousness.


Fear folds around me
suffocating the saving rays of a
newborn nebula.


Gut says "Go!" and I
race towards infinity to


lie in the warmth of
neonatal nonsense.


What is next in this
linearly-negative space? Swallow self into
pure potential, and the
fortitude for follow-through
finds my feet, stabilizing
recurring sabotage attempts sinned in a
sad effort to fulfill an
unknown penance.


Gone are the times when a gloze-over-getaway can be acceptable gain.

Snapshots // Intentions

Snapshots of snapshots,
are these pictures anymore a
documentation of me, or a
parallel life
somewhere through the looking glass.


Little hands, little feet,
sunshine in glorious giggles.
Lost locations imprint soulshine with a
savored idiosyncratic intention.


Descent from one shell to the
next as
skin is shed and left for the
insects to ingest.


Transmutational metamorphosis, the
aphids take out the trash.
Another version of the truth is
born, and with weak knees, embraced
if only to seem less of a stranger than
the girl before her.


Built in the factory,
recycle and renew.
Fractious is fissured with
animosity. Melancholy moves in,
echoing in between the
poorly sewn-in polestar.

(Witness)

     

   

      

straightaway to city center

sun slunk low behind

solemn skeletons of summer

magic drawbridge

crossing a creek kissed in ice

linked like lovers strolling in

stolen time

empty walls speak softly to

those who will listen

figurines gather in gait

escaping paralyzing pedestals

Michelangelo leaks from lips

like ladies sipping tea.

come.

single file by my side and witness

fumbling for fingers amidst

woolen fortresses